


Forduary 2019 Week 1 - Recovery, Praise

by redwoodroots



Series: Forduary 2019 [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Forduary 2019, forduary 2019 week 1, week 1 praise, week 1 recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwoodroots/pseuds/redwoodroots
Summary: Science owl is bullied.  Crusty mackerel saves the day.  Much angst, many comfort.





	Forduary 2019 Week 1 - Recovery, Praise

**Author's Note:**

> SLIDING INTO THE END OF FORDUARY LIKE MABEL ON A MAPLE-SYRUP SLIP-’N’-SLIDE
> 
> So I’ma do two things this year.  
> One: All four stories are linked, like chapters in a book!  
> Two: I. Brought. ANGST.
> 
> Trigger warning: Bullying

“Hah, he's really squirming now!”

“Quit thrashin' and get in there!”

“Whoa, check it out, he's gonna fit!”

“Get off me – get off!”

Ford struggled as hard as he could, but Crampelter dragged him toward the supply closet of the science lab. His two neanderthal accomplices stood on either side of it, grinning. The closet was barely bigger than a full-length locker, its shelves stocked with microscopes and jarred mutant frogs.

Crampelter shoved him in. Ford braced a foot against a bottom shelf and pushed, but Crampelter grabbed the back of his head and slammed Ford's skull against a shelf. Before Ford could recover, one of the troglodytes kicked at his legs. As he started to fall the closet door swung shut, hard, hitting his back and pinning him in with his legs half-collapsed beneath him. He felt an ankle give and gasped with pain.

The troglodyte laughed. “Teach him for tryin’ a build a satellite for aliens! He already is one!”

“Where's your bodyguard now, huh, Pines?” Crampelter banged on the door. Ford was crammed in so tight he could barely breathe, and every hit on the door threatened to crack his ribs against the shelves. “You hear me, Freak? If you want out you better beg for it!”

“My thoughts exactly, unless you want me to pound your face in.”

Stan! Shouldn't he still be at his boxing match?

Crampelter growled. “Back off, Meathead, or I'll make that shiner the least of your problems. Although with your looks, it might actually be an improvement.”

“Where's my brother?”

Ford didn't have enough breath to yell. He banged his elbow against the door.

“Just a little cleanup,” Crampelter sneered. “Putting the freak with the other mutants where he belongs.”

“THAT'S IT!”

Stan yelled and there was a massive crash, like the entire stand of glass beakers had been overturned. Crampelter, Thug 1, and Thug 2 grunted and cursed, punctuating insults with loud bangs and the muffled thud of fists. Something huge and heavy fell against the side of the cabinet, jarring the door. Several frog jars toppled and a couple of them crashed over his head. Formalin and frog juice spurted over his his hair and soaked his shoulders. More jars hit his bent leg. Pain flared and Ford broke out in a cold sweat.

There was an especially nasty crack and a horrible yelp, then Stan was bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“YEAH YOU BETTER RUN, CRAMPY! I SEE YOU NEAR MY BROTHER AGAIN YOUR FACE IS GONNA GET REUNITED WITH MY FIST REAL QUICK!”

There was a second of silence, then something scraped in the door. Stan was picking the lock.

“Sixer? You ok?”

“I can't breathe,” he whispered hoarsely. His chest was really starting to hurt. He couldn't inflate his lungs.

“Gimme a second, almost got it.”

Ford closed his eyes and started calculating pi in his head. He'd only gotten to the sixtieth digit when the door swung open and he started to fall back. Stan caught his shoulders, but Ford tried to catch himself with his bad ankle and cried out.

“What? What? Sixer?!”

He took a shaky breath and glanced back. “Don't worry, I – Stanley, your face!”

Stan's face looked like someone had repeatedly bashed it with a hammer. He had shiners on both eyes, a cut on one cheek, and the other cheek was already swelling to twice its size.

Stan grinned. Which, all things considered, looked rather horrible. “You think this is bad, you should've seen Crampelter' face, he looks like mincemeat! 'Sides, mosta this is from the fight. Guess what? I won!”

“Good, that's good,” Ford said, leaning on the closet. His ankle throbbed and his ribs ached. 

Stan grabbed Ford's arm and looped it over his shoulder. “C'mon, we gotta get you fixed up.”

“You're one to talk.”

They had to move very carefully out of the classroom. Stan had turned it into a warzone: the beakers really had been knocked over, ceramic displays of neurons and plant cells lay shattered over the lab tables, and a few of the tables had been overturned themselves – one of them was even lodged in the ceiling.

Normally the sight of desecrated science equipment would have been deeply disturbing. Today Ford didn't give it more than a passing glance. He just wanted to get home.

The two of them moved quietly out of the room and down the hall. At least the janitor was nowhere in sight. In unspoken agreement they bypassed the nurse's office and headed out of the building for the side gate. They could always get ice at home, and it was just better if they could get to their rooms before Pa closed the shop for the day. The last thing Ford wanted right now was another lecture on being “a real Pines man”.

They were only a few blocks from home when Stanley finally spoke.

“Want to hang out in the Stan O' War?”

“Maybe later, Stan.”

“I could bring you your nerd stuff. You know Ma 'n' Pa don't care as long as we make it home by eight.”

“Not right now.”

Ford concentrated on moving his feet, concentrating on mathematical proofs as they went. He was pretty close to practicing Fermat's Last Theorem, anyway.

“Uh, Sixer? What's that gunk in your hair?”

“Formalin.”

“Like baby stuff?”

“Not formula, formalin. A solution of formaldehyde and water. From the frogs.”

“Oh. Uh, well...you make it work! Right?”

Ford looked at him. 

“Yeah, okay, that was pretty bad. Listen, you know Crampelter is full of dog turd, pardon my French. Heck, the whole school is full of morons.”

“I just need some ice for my ankle.”

They'd reached their back door. Stan reached up with his free hand, got the spare key from the gutter, and let them in. Ford let go of Stan and hobbled toward the freezer.

Stan stopped him. “I'll get it, okay? Just go upstairs and do nerd stuff.”

Ford wasn't really in the mood to argue. He braced himself against the wall and limped into the hallway, sort of step-hopping up the stairs. He grabbed a cleanish set of clothes from the hamper on his way to the bathroom, cleaned himself off, and then made it to his room, where he collapsed on Stan's bed. He knew Stan wouldn't mind. He just wasn't up to climbing the ladder at the moment. His ankle felt hot and nausea rose in his gut. He closed his eyes.

_The Theorem. Just focus on the Theorem._

Something cold slapped him in the face and he yelped.

“Stan!” Ford pulled off the ice pack. “Are you trying to break my nose?”

“Tryin' ta get your attention, sure. Move over.”

Stan shoved his way onto his bed and Ford quickly made room. Stan lay stretched out, his head on his pillow, and Ford rested his back against the wall with his legs over Stan's stomach. Ford leaned over and put the bag of ice on his propped-up ankle.

“This too,” Stan said, tossing another ice pack at him. “For your face. You look almost as bad as me.”

“Gee, thanks. Where's your ice pack?”

“It popped. Besides, people see me looking like this, they know not to mess with Stan Pines, Master of Punches!”

“You really need a different title.”

“Hey, I won my sixth boxing match in a row! I got all the titles!”

Ford made a sound of agreement and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. His head ached. He'd forgotten where he'd left off with the Theorem.

He felt Stan shift under him. “Look, Sixer, you’re smart enough to know they’re just pickin' on you because they can. It’s how idiots like them get their kicks.”

“It's how you get your kicks with Roger Morris.”

“He started that rumor about you, he was asking for it. Why don't you just read a nerd book or something? Want me to get you one?” He gestured to the bookcase in the corner of the room, so laden with texts the shelves were sagging.

“No, no. I’m – I'm fine.”

Stan sat up, dumping Ford's legs onto his lap. “You don't want to read? Did you get body-snatched or something?”

“Would you just leave me alone?” Ford snapped. He struggled to get up, but the angle was too awkward to manage.

“Hey – ow!” Stan caught Ford's wrist and he couldn't squirm away. “Geez, Ford, what's gotten into you?”

“What do you think?!” Ford burst out. “You keep telling me I'm smart, but that's the whole problem! That's exactly why I'm getting picked on! Because I stick out like – like my stupid sixth fingers! If I'm so smart, why haven't I figured out a way to keep Crampelter off my back? Thanks to him I got beaten up and you look like someone stuck you in a meat grinder face-first!”

“Yeah, and I _still_ look handsome! Eh? Eh?”

Ford jerked his hand away. “This isn’t a joke, Stanley! Being a freak is bad enough. Being a smart freak just draws a massive target on my back.”

“C’mon, Sixer, I love that you’re smart!”

He snorted. “Sure, because you get great grades sitting next to me.”

“That too! But look, you’re not the only one with a target on their back. You’ve seen how Pa looks at me. Plus Crampy and the Goon Patrol liked beating me up all the time before I got good at boxing, and I only had the regular number of fingers.”

Ford stared down at his hands. “If I could just - just hide my intellect the way I try hide my hands…”

“Then I would be the smart twin, and we both know I'd get us into way more trouble than I already do.” Stan punched Ford lightly on the arm. “Bein' smart is part of what makes you you, Sixer. If you weren't so smart, you wouldn't be my nerdy book-lovin' poindexter of a brother.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ford said drily.

“Point is, I wouldn't change anything about you, ever. You don’t have to change just to make some morons happy, at least not around me. And I don’t feel like I hafta change myself when I’m around you, either. So what if they call us a freak or the bad twin? You’re a genius, and I’m a six-time boxing champion, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

A lump rose in Ford's throat. “I...don’t feel like I have to change, either, around you.”

“That's what I'm sayin'!” He grinned and laid back. “You just wait. One more year a this stupid town and then we’ll be out on the open ocean. Beaches, babes, smooth sailin', maybe a kraken or two for you and a smokin'-hot mermaid for me!”

“Stan, mermaids are reported to drown sailors.”

“Plus you'll come up with the best treasure-hunting equipment on the planet!” He swiped a magazine off his nightstand and shoved it at Ford. “Speaking of which, I saw this amazing picture of a doohickey that can detect mermaids underwater!”

“It's called 'sonar', Stanley,” Ford said. He tried to sound annoyed, but a smile was tugging at his lips.

“It's _called_ the awesomest of awesome! We’re gonna be out on the ocean for months at a time, Ford. I’ma need some hot dates. You think you can make one a those puppies?”

“Yes,” Ford said immediately. He opened the magazine, but he knew already he could make decent sonar equipment. He'd already read the entire selection on naval technology at their local library, actually, not to mention doing a good deal of extrapolation on how to use advance the current sonar capabilities. He opened the magazine. 

“I knew it, I could practically build this in my sleep. But we'll need supplies.”

Stan sat up eagerly. “Done! What supplies?”

“A sheet of metal, a blowtorch, wires, an ultrasonic sensor...”


End file.
